


Aide

by BannedBloodOranges



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Comedy to Angst, F/F, Ficlet, Final Curtain, First and Last Meetings, Genderswap, Much Like The ITV series, Rule 63, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/BannedBloodOranges
Summary: How little things changed.
Relationships: Arthur Hastings/Hercule Poirot
Kudos: 20





	Aide

**Author's Note:**

> Two drabbles from an old unfinished fic I connected for more femslash!Poirot goodness.  
> Non-profit fun only.

Amongst the swirling figures of the ballroom, she was a single, unmatched spectacle.

She had a fine, polished head, the shape of an egg, which balanced upon a short, stout body, quite unwomanly in appearance, slipped beneath an impeccably pressed pinstriped lounge suit and waistcoat, a stiff-fronted shirt with a wing collar and bow tie, and a Homburg hat sat upon the gleaming black of her hair; tucked and measured behind her ears.

The spectacle also bore a face, eyebrows arched thickly above large eyes, chocolate dark, gleaming quick and clever, but not ungentle, and a fine nose with nostrils delicately flared, and a thin, courteous mouth.

Athena did not quite know what to do with herself, for the lady - for indeed it was a lady, with the hips split thick in the rare sight of trousers - and a heat rode high in Athena's cheeks, for the person had not seen her yet, and instead fluttered her little feet between the guests. Their lack of staring indicated that she was a familiar sight to them, and Athena's agog gaze said most clearly that she was not, and as if by a second sense, the spectacle turned her head and caught Athena's eye with a glitter in her own, and the lips squeezed up into a dutifully congenial smile.

_Good lord,_ Athena thought. T _hey must think I disapprove._ To counter the horror of the notion - truly, Athena did not know what to think but being rude was unthinkable - and so she smiled back, a wobbly show of teeth, bright and open and stupid, and as if to help her along, her silly feet in her silly heels gave way, and she caught herself on the table just in time.

The Spectacle raised her inky eyebrows, bemused, and Athena heard the quick, neat shuffle of her feet approach, and a dainty hand touch her arm.

"You are well, Mademoiselle?" The accent was sweet, crystal on the unfamiliar English. "Can I offer any assistance?"

* * *

It was not right to see her like this. Plaid skin hung on her bones, her weight diminished into nothing but a heap of blankets and stick legs on a chair. When Athena had entered the room, feeling grey and unflatteringly upright in her tweed skirts, had the sombre sight of the chair turned and once again, she had seen the glitter of those clever eyes.

"My Darling Mademoiselle Hastings..." Hercula had said, her hands outstretched. So frail she had seemed, her delicate fingers knobbled by arthritis and liver spots. Her hands were powdered; she was attempting to conceal the veins. "My dearest."

For a moment, it had seemed like nothing had changed. That was she no longer Madame Duveen, widow and half-forgotten mother. That she was fresh, gangly, awkward and dim as ever. The limping gazelle to Poirot's demure penguin. 

"It's so good..." Athena's straight-backed walk felt like an insult. She held out her hand in a shake; Hercula cradled it between her palms like a lover. Athena swallowed. How dry the years had been, how careless. "...to see you."

There had been a woman playing the piano. She had the single-minded look of the unmarried. Like Athena, she was tall. Unlike Athena, she was young and pretty.

"Let me the introduction..." Even as she said it, Poirot's gaze never left Athena. "...of Mademoiselle Elizabeth Cole."

* * *

She pushed the wheelchair like a wheelbarrow, Poirot had snapped, far from the mood of the tender greeting, as the pea soup sky loomed dreary overhead.

Beneath the rustling trees, Poirot spoke of Derek, of a wound fresh, and of Athena, how she had matured well. Athena, feeling tired, waited patiently for the reveal. 

Evil. There was evil here. Athena had to be the eyes and ears, as always. How little things changed.

"If I can be of assistance," She took her hand. "I will, as always."

"Oh mon amour," The great Detective's eyes crinkled. "Of that, I have no doubt."

* * *

_"My poor Hastings," She whispered, on her single bed. Bloated, old, no less brilliant. "My poor Hastings, you have forever tripped, and I, this one time, unable to catch you, to grant you, my aide."_

* * *

After Derek's death, she found her one final time, bowled over in bed with the powder shimmering from her delicate little hands.

The spectacle - and the years behind, full of her - are gone.

* * *

"Oh yes, indeed," Athena gabbled, taking the gloved hand. "Why, yes. Very kind, yes."

"It is no trouble, Madmasoille," The Spectacle twinkled. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hercula Poirot, Private Detective, and if I may say, at your assistance."


End file.
